


Days Of Denial

by kcstories



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-05
Updated: 2006-09-16
Packaged: 2018-07-25 16:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7540165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcstories/pseuds/kcstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not about love. (This tale is very much AU, where the destruction of a horcrux lumbers the Light Side with Tom Riddle. This time, it's Hermione who gets stuck with the aspiring Dark Lord.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> **Pairing:** Tom/Hermione  
>  **Warnings:** Sexual situations, angst, mention of character deaths. Not a happy, fluffy tale.  
>  **Disclaimer:** The Potterverse is JKR's not mine.

You tell yourself there's a war on, and this is just your way of coping.  
  
(You were never any kind of seductress before. You never even considered yourself capable, but how quickly it became second nature.)  
  
You remind yourself how the sex is just a distraction, there's nothing personal about any of this.  
  
(The Order decided Riddle was your responsibility, so you decided you might as well have some fun; and _he_ wasn't exactly averse to the idea, either.)  
  
When you crawl into his bed each night, when you give him all you have, and take everything of his, it's not about love.  
  
You know it, and you know _he_ knows it too.  
  
(Perhaps you're using him, or maybe you're using each other, but at the end of the day, either or both, it doesn't really matter, and besides, you have more important things to worry about right now.)  
  
When you linger afterwards, and you fall asleep in his arms, that's only because it's more convenient and warmer that way.  
  
(It's the dead of winter, after all.)  
  
On the tenth night, you don't notice you're being followed. You never catch the glimpse of red hair through the crack in the door.  
  
(You have no idea that in the near-distant darkness, a heart is silently breaking.)  
  
Because you're distracted again, and all you can think is Tom, and _Tom_ , and _FuckYesTom_.


	2. Descent

You stare out of the window, at the spot where Harry and Ron stood just a few moments ago.   
  
You hope the fourth horcrux won't be as much of a struggle as the third one was.   
  
You let out a deep sigh, and suddenly feel his arms around you.   
  
(You never noticed how he moved silently towards you. You didn't even hear him enter the room.)   
  
You half-expect him to say something, something sappy and inappropriate like "It'll be all right, Hermione", and you're very glad when he _doesn't_ , because that would've ruined everything.   
  
(You simply don't have that kind of relationship.)   
  
The spell he mutters shuts the blinds and locks the door.   
  
He takes you by the hand and pushes you against the bookshelf, not exactly gently.   
  
You notice a few titles, like "A Thousand Uses For Mandrake" and "Origins Of Unicorns", but then your mind drifts to other matters, and you no longer care about faded words on worn spines of old books.   
  
His hands wander under your blouse, his tongue finds your ear and you lean your head back in encouragement.   
  
You can feel him, pressed up against your back and you can tell that he's hard, just like he was last night, and again this morning.   
  
An involuntary moan escapes your lips, and your heart begins to race.   
  
(But you will never reveal how much it excites you, how it turns you on to know you have this kind of power over him.)   
  
Your knickers slide down and off, and suddenly, his hands are everywhere.   
  
(Or at least that's what it feels like.)   
  
And you shiver in anticipation, and you tremble with delight, and then he's inside you, and _he_ moves, and _you_ move.   
  
(And soon you're soaring and you're flying, and you're falling, and you think you might be _dying_ and you wonder; you wonder if anyone else will ever make you feel like this.)   
  
When it's over, you don't speak.   
  
(You never do.)   
  
There's a softly uttered cleaning spell, followed by the readjusting of clothing, and you wordlessly go your separate ways again.   
  
You don't know where he's off to now.   
  
(You never ask.)   
  
You tell yourself you don't care and you head down to the kitchen.   
  
Mrs Weasley smiles at you. She's making soup, chopping up carrots, slicing celery into tiny pieces.   
  
You sit down at the large table, and you pour yourself a cup of coffee.   
  
"That Tom's a quiet one, isn't he, Hermione?" Molly remarks. "Didn't breathe a single word when he helped me with the dishes earlier."   
  
"Hm," you say, and you take a sip from your cup.   
  
The taste in your mouth is bitter and it lingers.


	3. Dust

So you've made yourself a promise.   
  
You won't run to him tonight. You _shan't_.   
  
Because this whole thing, it's going too far.   
  
(Perhaps, it has gone too far already.)   
  
Outside your window, a war rages.   
  
It's fierce, it's merciless and it's spreading like wildfire, even spilling over into the Muggle world.   
  
Riots in the streets, duels and destruction, death and decay, and a government hiding deep underground.   
  
(You're not as surprised at their cowardice as you might have been.)   
  
Nine hours from now, you'll attend another funeral.   
  
(They'll all say Remus Lupin fought valiantly, and no one will dare mention the wolf.)   
  
You inhale sharply and you wonder how much longer.   
  
Your eyes fill with tear and you ask yourself, how many more?   
  
(Fallen heroes, slaughtered innocents, cities in dust, Hogwarts in ruins, and moments like this, you barely remember what you're even fighting for.)   
  
You grit your teeth, and you remind yourself you're not going.   
  
(Not tonight.)   
  
You toss and turn for what feels like hours.   
  
(It has only been twenty minutes, but you didn't think to look at the clock.)   
  
You finally give in.   
  
You climb out of bed and tiptoe down the hall.   
  
(Oddly enough, it feels nothing like surrender.)   
  
First the door creaks and then the bed.   
  
You don't talk.   
  
(That's not what you come here for.)   
  
He rolls over, and he pulls you to him.   
  
His sheets are warm and so is he.   
  
(So is _he_.)   
  
And tonight is the same as every night.   
  
(Every night of the past three weeks.)   
  
He breaks you down until he builds you up again, and he leaves you breathless so you can finally breathe.   
  
When it's over, you're too tired to move.   
  
That's the only reason you stay.   
  
(Not because you _want_ to.)   
  
"Sweet dreams, love," he whispers against your hair.   
  
You're already deep in slumber, so you can't hear him.   
  
Perhaps that's for the best.


	4. Daze

There's a dark circle in the middle of the table.   
  
You absentmindedly trace it with your index finger and you predict  on will be at the receiving end of Molly's wrath later. He always forgets to use a coaster, no matter how often or how loudly his mother reminds him to.   
  
Some things never change, you think, and you feel oddly reassured; if only for a little while.   
  
You look up when Tom walks in.   
  
He pours himself a glass of water (you wonder why he never drinks coffee) and he sits down across from you.   
  
Your eyes meet and you didn't intend for that to happen.   
  
(You usually go out of your way to avoid his gaze. Its intensity scares you; it makes you feel vulnerable, needy and a lot of other things you shouldn't be feeling at all; certainly not with him.)   
  
But now that it _is_ happening, you can't bring yourself to look away.   
  
You're too wrapped up in how handsome he is.   
  
(Yes, he really is.)   
  
And besides, you wouldn't want to hurt his feelings.   
  
(And since when do you care about his feelings? When did it first cross your mind that he might actually _feel_? You can't remember, but it wasn't always like this.)   
  
He gives you a small smile.   
  
(The silence in the room is comfortable and familiar.)   
  
You don't pull away when he reaches out across the table and takes your hand. You don't flinch when he presses a feather-light kiss against your palm. You don't flee, when he gently intertwines his fingers with your own.   
  
You just smile instead.   
  
And you're beginning to wonder if, perhaps, there's really nothing to be afraid of here.


	5. Devastation

You stare at the tombstone and shake your head sadly.   
  
They started using dragons last month.   
  
Sometimes, you think, all it takes is _wrong place, wrong time_.   
  
(Amidst smoke, fire and terrifying screams, thirty innocents perished that day. Luna was one of them.)   
  
On good days, you wonder if you'll ever see the end of this hell.   
  
On bad days, ashes fall from the sky like rain, and you believe this won't end at all; not before the whole wide world has gone up in flames.   
  
The Forbidden Forest burned down to the ground two weeks ago; forcing its creatures out of their sanctuary and into your society.   
  
(Desperate wizards make risky deals with questionable Muggles; they buy strong explosives and illegal firearms, because no spell is strong enough to withhold hordes of rabid werewolves, thirsty vampires, screeching banshees and spiders the size of houses.)   
  
"Hermione?"   
  
You recognise the voice. It reminds you of better times, when life was simple and magic was exciting, and you still had hopes, dreams and ideals to cling to.   
  
(Now all that's left is Tom. There will always be Tom.)   
  
"Ready to go home?" Harry asks. His voice sounds as empty as you feel.   
  
You nod, you take his arm, and you return to the Burrow.   
  
The air is heavy with smoke, sulphur and regret.   
  
You know your world is ending, one scorched tree at the time.


End file.
